Gotham Through the Ages
Gotham City – 1888
In the gaslit streets of Gotham City, the mist rose up from the river, and the fog dimmed the light from the lamps, making the roads hazy and slick. The bustling traffic of horsedrawn carriages and pedestrians had died down, and now the moon shone faintly through the clouds, managing to penetrate the thick fog even less than the streetlamps. The air was heavy and close and wet, and the night was chilly.
"Well, what did you think of the play, Harvey?" asked Pamela Isley, as she and hundreds of other wealthy patrons left the theater to head out into the cold.
Harvey Dent snorted, lighting up a cigarette. "Load of rubbish!" he laughed. "If I had to spend another minute watching that ham Karlo flail and lurch his way all over the stage, I would have gone crazy!"
"He wasn't that bad, Harvey," chided Pamela Isley. "What did you think of it, Bruce?"
Bruce Wayne was silent, adjusting his cape as they exited the theater. "I think…the premise of the story was very interesting."
"What? A man who can split himself into two halves?" chuckled Dent.
"No. A man with a soul that is split in two," he murmured. "Leading a double life. One full of the routine drudgery of society and social obligations…and the other free."
He looked up at the clouded moon. "The idea…that we all wear masks of one kind or another," he murmured. "And that we never know each other's true face."
"Yes, load of rubbish, like I said!" laughed Dent. "All this monster mumbo jumbo is not for me, I'm afraid. Let the weaker minded keep their fantasy. I find reality, with all its real pleasures, much more enjoyable," he murmured, kissing Pamela Isley tenderly.
"I'll hail a cab," said Bruce, heading to the curb and raising his hand.
"It's Bruce Wayne, isn't it?" said a voice.
He turned to see a tall, thin man wearing spectacles and a formal suit standing behind him. "Er…yes," he said. "Forgive me, I don't think I've had the pleasure…"
"Doctor Jonathan Crane," he said, holding out his hand and shaking Bruce's firmly. "I work at Arkham Asylum for the Criminally Insane."
"Of course, Dr. Crane, I've read your work on the subject of fear as a criminal deterrent," said Bruce. "In my hobby as an amateur criminologist, it's proved most helpful."
"I am glad to hear it," replied Crane, smiling at him. "If you'll forgive me, I had the box across from yours during tonight's production and…well…I couldn't help noticing your face."
"What about my face?" asked Bruce, puzzled.
"It expressed a great fascination with the play," he said. "A more than usual interest."
Bruce shrugged. "I cannot deny that I found the ideas incredibly stimulating. Is there any…scientific basis for such a theory, do you suppose?"
"What, in the duality of mankind's soul?" said Crane. "Yes, quite a bit, in fact. There are many types of lunatics who portray an outward stability that hides an inner turmoil. Indeed, not just lunatics, although in my work I come into frequent contact with them more than anyone else. One could say that a lunatic is man's personality completely free of any moral and social conventions, like the Mr. Hyde in this play tonight. He is what we all would be, if we did not hold ourselves in check. Or perhaps, if we were not bound by the chains of sanity."
"Were you gents wanting a cab?" asked a voice. They turned to see a man dressed in a shabby purple tailcoat and top hat, standing by a horse-drawn hansom.
"How dare you interrupt a conversation between your betters?" demanded Crane of the man, furiously.
"It's all right, Dr. Crane, we'll continue this discussion another time," said Bruce. "Come to Wayne Manor for dinner sometime, won't you? Here's my card."
"Thank you, Mr. Wayne, I will," said Crane, tipping his hat. "Good evening to you."
He glared at the cab driver and sauntered off. "Just wait a moment while I fetch my friend," said Bruce, heading back over to Dent and Isley.
"No hurry," muttered the man in purple, petting his horse as he tried to control the burning fury in his green eyes. "Take your time."
He opened the door for Isley and held out a hand to her. She took one look at the dirty, tattered white gloves he wore, and then made a point of helping herself into the cab. The man in purple shut the door when they were all inside, and then climbed back up on the driver's seat, cracking his whip over the horse slightly harder than necessary.
The cab drew up in front of Wayne Manor. The man in purple opened the door and stood by wordlessly as Bruce Wayne said his goodbyes, and watched as his butler opened the front door for him.
His second stop was at an equally luxurious residence. He was about to open the door again, but Mr. Dent beat him to it, practically falling out of the coach with Miss Isley in his arms.
"Harvey, you can't stay!" she giggled. "What if someone sees you? Think of my reputation!"
"Well, who's gonna see us on a night like this?" he chuckled, kissing her. "I'll slip out early tomorrow. Nobody will ever know."
"Except my servants," she retorted. "And this man," she said, gesturing at the man in purple.
Dent snorted. "Who cares?" he laughed. "Who are they gonna tell? And who's gonna listen to them if they do? They're not important, with their meaningless little lives. Who cares what they know?"
She giggled. "All right, you naughty boy! But don't you dare tell anyone!"
"That'll be ten, sir," muttered the man in purple.
"Oh yes…of course," said Dent, feeling around in his pockets. "Uh…that's eight, so that'll do, won't it? All I have with me anyway, and you certainly can't expect the lady to pay. Good night."
He took Isley's arm and they both entered the house, with the man in purple staring after them. He pocketed the money and climbed slowly back on the cab. It was barely worth being out on a night like this. He was chilled to the bone, and barely earning a living, let alone this month's rent.
It had been a long, disappointing day, and the man in purple had reached a decision. He had spent most of his life working as a cabbie around Gotham, ferrying around the rich and the snobbish and barely making ends meet. When he did earn enough to treat himself, he spent the rare night enjoying a few drinks at his local pub, and that was where he had met Mr. Valestra.
Mr. Valestra had said he could use a man like him, and promised him a substantial amount of money if he would do a job for him. The only catch was that the job was not strictly legal, which was why Mr. Valestra was willing to pay so much for a getaway driver. He wanted him to be that driver. The man had considered, weighed down with thoughts of conscience and ethics. But in that moment, he had made his decision. He was going to see Mr. Valestra tonight.
He drew up his horse and car in front of his lodgings, stopping in to get a few things. He pushed open the door, underneath the sign which read Quinzel's Hot Pies.
"Oh…Mr. Napier!" stammered Miss Quinzel, smiling as he entered. "Good evening!"
"Good evening, Miss Quinzel," he said, smiling back.
"You're back early," she commented. "Business slow tonight?"
"As usual," he sighed.
"Well, it is for me too," she said, smiling shyly at him. "So at least we're unprofitable together."
He wanted to say something to her – she looked so pretty, as she always did, her blonde hair put up in pigtails, and her apron covering her red and black dress. He had wanted to say something to her from the moment they met, but she might consider him a terrible cad – after all, she was his landlady, and probably half his age. It had the potential to be an awkward situation, and so he had held his tongue. He didn't want her to think he was trying to take advantage of her.
Instead he just smiled, heading for the stairs in the back of the shop that led to his room. Inside, he headed over to a small chest in the corner and took out a cane, with a blade concealed inside it, just in case of trouble.
He glanced at his reflection for a moment, trying to fully comprehend what he was about to do. He was about to aid in the perpetration of a crime. He had always been a good, decent, hard-working man, and now he was going to break the law for profit.
He paused to consider whether this was right, but his mind was made up. Something about the events of tonight had stung him, and he wasn't going to be trampled and dismissed any longer. He was going to make them pay.
He opened the door to his room and met Miss Quinzel, who had been about to knock. "Oh…I was wondering, Mr. Napier, if…since you're back…you'd…like to join me for a cup of tea, in the parlor," she stammered.
"That's very kind, Miss Quinzel," he said, sincerely. "But I have someplace to be tonight. I just stopped in to pick something up."
"Of course," she said, hastily. "Some other time, perhaps."
"I certainly hope so," he said, gazing at her. He wondered how far he could press his courage tonight – if he could commit a crime, surely he could tell this woman how he felt about her?
"Miss…Quinzel…I…I have something I'd like to…say to you…" he stammered.
"Yes?" she said, eagerly.
"I…that is…you…I wish to tell you, that I…"
"Yes?" she pressed.
He stared into her beautiful face and lost his nerve. "Nothing," he said hastily, heading for the stairs. "Nothing. I'll…see you soon, Miss Quinzel."
He had nothing to offer her, after all – no prospects, no future. But that would all change after tonight. After tonight he would tell her how he felt.
He pulled up the cab at the entrance to the chemical factory. "Jack, we were worried you wouldn't show!" said Mr. Valestra, smiling through his cigarette smoke.
"I'm a man of my word, Mr. Valestra," he muttered, climbing down from the cab.
"Good man!" said Mr. Valestra, clapping him on the back. "And you'll be rewarded for it, too! Quarter share in this operation, just like I promised."
He turned to two of his henchmen. "Get inside and take care of the guards. Jack, you stick with me – we'll need all of us to haul the loot out."
They waited a few moments until one of henchmen waved that the coast was clear. And then Jack followed him inside, nervously tapping his cane on the ground. The factory was dark, the only light being the strange, green glow emanating from the vats of chemicals below them.
"What's in there?" he asked, looking down.
"Who knows?" asked Mr. Valestra, heading over to the office and watching as his men pried the lock off the safe. "Stuff people will pay a lotta money for, though."
Jack saw the bodies of the guards, lying in pools of their own blood outside the office, and repressed a shudder, trying not to think about their families.
"Now stop asking questions and start hauling," Mr. Valestra snapped, interrupting Jack's thoughts by dumping a bag of money into his arms. Jack stared at it – he had never seen so much wealth in all his life. Instantly his moral qualms were put aside, and he headed out of the factory.
They deposited dozens of sacks into Jack's cab. "You get the last one, Jack – I'm gonna make sure we don't leave any evidence," said Mr. Valestra, pouring whiskey from a hip flask along the wooden floor of the office.
Jack lifted the last bag and headed for the platform over the vat while Mr. Valestra stuck a match, dropped it onto the ground, and followed him out. The flame caught instantly, sending the office up in a blaze.
Jack had glanced back to look at the fire, then turned back around, and gasped as his heart leapt to his throat. The light from the fire illuminated a huge, black, caped figure standing in front of him. The shadow on the wall cast by the flames made the figure resemble a giant, hellish bat.
"Great God Almighty!" gasped Jack in horror.
The figure was silent and swift, knocking the money from Jack's hand and then punching him, sending him flying against the railing. Valestra reached for his revolver, but that was kicked out of his hand before he could fire it. The figure came at him again, but Valestra ducked, punching him in the face and knocking him back.
The blaze from the office had caught the ceiling, and tongues of flame licked at the wood as it began to crack. Pieces of timber crashed down around Jack, one of them colliding with part of the railing and sending it hurtling into the chemicals below. He looked up to where Valestra and the figure still struggled, and then saw Valestra's fallen pistol not far from his grasp.
He reached for it, aiming it at the figure's masked head, his hands shaking in terror. But before he could pull the trigger, the figure heard him cocking the gun and reacted instantly, kicking the revolver from his hand and then knocking him backward to where the rail had fallen, leaving the edge unprotected.
Jack felt himself teetering and tried to regain his balance, but it was no good. He slipped from the platform, grasping futilely at the rails. The masked figure saw him and shot a hand out to grab him…but it was too late. With a scream, Jack plunged down into the swirling green chemicals and disappeared without a trace.